


Sex

by Ladycat



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: First Time, M/M, Rough Sex, Sex Club
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2014-02-13
Packaged: 2018-01-12 05:37:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1182537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The voice is velvet, low.  It holds all the experience his body cannot show.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sex

It's just that kind of place. Gritty and raw, it stinks of too many humans revved higher than the pulsing bass can account for. Sweat and sex are thicker than any of the perfumes that might have been applied before arriving; if any had at all. It _is_ that kind of place.

There's no set signal but some things seem to work on them. A singular moment, unheard by everyone who isn’t the target, and then all the posers fade away, hipsters claiming a need for coffee and possibly beat poetry, while all the girls made up like neon barbies come to giggling life find excuses to return to homes that might or might not be their own. It happens so fast. One song, the next, and suddenly the only ones left are the reason he came. The ones that don't just contort to the beat but _feel_ something. Still silent, still unnoticed to those who don't respond – it’s deliciously in sync. A moment, a breath -- no soap, but slick skin -- and suddenly the shirts are gone. Not everyone among the dancing, shifting mass of humanity responds. Men, mostly, and that's an oddity Spike doesn't bother to worry about.

So many beautiful toys all vying for his attention. Why should he bother caring about why?

Places like this have existed throughout the centuries. Millennia, for all he knows. A sort of return to when minds were hazy and unformed, the concept of _tomorrow_ , of _yesterday_ incomprehensible; irrelevant. All that mattered is now, this moment and this feeling.

And this feeling is for _more_. Bodies that touch, moving together in a seething mass. Skins could brush delicately, tantalizingly, or collide so strongly bones might clack, bruises painting dark promise in their wake. The possibilities are endless.

A club full of anticipation.

Spike inhales as deeply as he can. His fangs itch. Past experience tells him he could let them fall and no one would even comment -- and here, he knows, this place and this moment the hold is stronger than usual. If it's a spell, it's nothing that any one can cast. The kind of magic of humans themselves, wrought by their own subconscious will.

So many pretties pressed against dark velvet. They glitter when Spike looks at them, focusing on each possibility with a jeweler's intent. It's a pantheon on variation and Spike ghosts down closer to the floor, still swallowing lungful after lungful as he studies girls who have shed all the flesh they should have sported, gone to women who would make Ruben pant with unyielding lust. Men were just as plentiful, thousands of flavors that burst against his tongue, taunting him.

And then a moment that’s all for Spike. His alone, a treasure he hoards with greedy, sticky fingers. That moment when he just _knows_. A spotlight's glare falls though no one else can see the glow. This time the boy is just that: a boy, thin enough that he still moves gawkily, a colt not yet in control of his limbs. They flail, lacking the rhythm that rests more easily in his eyes, half-closed and beatific, face completely relaxed as he jerks and twists to music he cannot truly follow. Hair caught between short and long whips through the air, tendrils clinging to his chin, his mouth.

His _mouth_.

He bites it, apple-red and far too lush against such a narrowly innocent body. It's a mouth made for sex, for kisses and more, and Spike cups between his own legs, needing the pressure as he imagines forcing that sweetness to part for him, watching it stretch and swell.

 _Fuck_ , Spike thinks. And undoes the button of his pants.

The boy dances without awareness of those around him. That means blundering into people as often as it does ignoring those who might want more. Good. That's very good, because Spike has all the musicality this boy lacks, and he easily insinuates himself to the rhythm that clearly no one but the boy hears. Together they move, closer and closer, until Spike presses his chest to the bony slash of his vertebrae, the rest of him fitting surprisingly well into the cradle of Spike's hips, his shoulders; arm firm against a belly stretched painfully tight.

"Too skinny by half," he shouts, all the music allows. "Not smart, for a lad like you."

"I can take care of myself."

The voice is velvet, low. It holds all the experience his body cannot show. Spike shivers, grinning, and runs his fingers up to tug -- light, so light -- against the barest wisp of curls. Old enough, Spike decides, and chuckles when the boy's head falls back into the crook of his neck. Definitely old enough.

"Gonna tell me no, then? Since you can take care of yourself, and all."

The boy twists and opens his eyes fully.

Blue as piercing as a laser sears into Spike's brain and fuck if that doesn't make him harder, make him grind against a surprisingly full ass, hands groping to find-- yes, bloody hell, _yes_ , nice and long and just as hard.

"Tell me no," Spike orders.

The boy just grins. He has little teeth, very white. "Yes."

Five minutes later Spike is jamming two fingers in deep, watching with lazy appreciation as the boy doesn't try to fight but doesn't try to relax, either. "Done this before?"

"No."

Soft heat pulses at Spike's jab; a twist and the pressure does loosen just a touch. "Liar."

"You didn't ask if I've had sex before," the boy responds, infuriatingly reasonable. It's like he's laughing at Spike.

Spike laughs back. "So I didn't. Never thought to peg you for a virgin."

Spit makes terrible lube. Spike adds some more, cock throbbing as the boy finally gives up a groan. There's nothing about it that objects.

"Good thing I'm not."

"Spike."

"Connor.” And then, “Harder. I won't break."

That isn't a foregone conclusion, light gilds hollows that no man grown should sport no matter how fashionably underfed they want to look, but Spike takes him at his word: adds another finger until he's got three of them twisting and pushing, coring all that sweet heat like an apple.

Maybe he's hungry, or maybe it's all that pale skin, slowly starting to turn red as he watches, that makes Spike give a mental _fuck it_ and lean forward, driving his teeth (flat, barely) into the bony ridge of Connor's shoulder. He isn't sure what he expects when he does that. Screams, probably, and maybe a frantic, furious little buck, like someone's realizing a back alley fuck over a railing isn't the safest of endeavors.

Instead, Connor groans out something like relief and goes absolutely liquid.

"Fuck, yeah," Spike breathes. "Like that, hunh? Can feel how much you do. Been begging for it before I picked you out of the crowd. All tight and needy, just dying for someone push you down and _make_ you take it."

Another groan, softer and somehow more intense, but Spike can still taste the sass underneath.

He bites again, hard enough to leave a pattern to lick over for more than a few seconds after, and the attitude disappears.

"Thought so,” he mocks, laughter adding another point of sensation for the boy to twist against. “Knew what you were from the first, pet. A naughty, needy little brat. Just begging for someone to teach you another way." One-handed, Spike undoes the rest of his pants, cock springing free. "So much rather be a good boy, wouldn't you? And good boys, pet, they fucking scream."

On ‘fucking’, Spike pulls his fingers out roughly, jamming his cock into a pinkly gaping hole a second later. He means to go balls deep in one go. Can't. "Fuck," he cries out, sharper than the lulling dirty-talk he'd prefer. "Sure you aren't a virgin?"

Tight. _Tight_ , despite all that time Spike spent working on him, a whole bloody five minutes, maybe even ten. And still getting into him feels like hammering, like something more than fucking, and he knows without reaching beneath those narrow, blade-like hips, that Connor loves every god damned second of it as much as Spike does.

Only he doesn't scream. And that's just not on. Spike likes those screams, the noises that pour out because he is as good at dicking as he thinks he is, and he's made better lays than this turn into pleading, addicted mush for just a taste of his cock.

Good thing Spike appreciates a challenge. Spice, and all.

The beat from the floor below has gotten louder, harsher since they’ve come upstairs. Spike takes that as his cue, the starting place, and deepens it further. He’s rough, as primal and as focused as everything is here. Really, it’s brutal, and later Spike will spare a thought or three on how a body as skinnypretty as this one can take each furious thrust, his body juddering with shocks but never moving out of its bent over supplication no matter how harshly Spike fucks him. Raw as fire and it burns just as much, Spike mouthing along his neck, his shoulders, licking up his sweat. Kisses are offered as often as bites and once Spike pulls back, panting, starting to lose the control he'd rather keep, distracted by the study of the rose garden he's cultivating. Red along the neck, while darker blooms spread over Connor's arms, his hips, sides streaked with buds not yet opened.

"Gorgeous," Spike breathes. "Just perfect you are, sweet little piece. Never thought you'd take it as nice as this."

Connor makes a choked half-questioning noise and oh, there. That final, ultimate signal, the one that isn’t hidden from those who obey its whims, one that makes Spike’s grin turn savagely inhuman and know, certain as dust and ashes, that if the boy saw him now there’d be no surprise, no fear or dismay. Just a curt, frustrated comment as to why Spike’s stopped.

Because this signal is theirs to share. A moment that’s precious and perfect.

And Spike stops holding back.

Long thrusts mean more depth, but it's pressure that's wanted now. Any finesse or skill is abandoned as Spike starts hammering once again. He aims to hurt this boy who craves it as much as he loves to give it, caught on the silent certainty that it isn’t pain the boy will feel. Not once the phrase he can taste, sugared almonds in liquid form, is uttered. Buried in sweat-soaked hair Spike grins, and bites, and tastes a burst of copper that vanishes too damn fast. Croons out those terrible noises, approval, appreciation, and reaches between jeans that flap and flail with them to find a cock that does neither at all.

“Good boy,” Spike breathes, slamming in so hard the rail gives an ominous shudder they both ignore.   
"That's it, baby. Gonna fuck you raw, and you're gonna love every second of it, because you're a good boy. Made to be taken like this, rough enough to bleed, and oh, I'm gonna see that you do, pet. Gonna get me that scream I want, and you're gonna love giving it to me. Because I know what you are, boy. I know what you want."

Care and consideration are concepts long since abandoned. By no means passive, it’s the words that twists the dial as high as they both want it to go: Connor turns into a wildcat, furious, frantic, and fucking brilliant as he takes every ounce of force Spike gives him and always wants more. Later, again, Spike will remember that people are watching them, awed by the ferocity of their coupling, and probably no little frightened, even as they're one and all turned on.

During, Spike sees none of it. Just this boy he wants to break, to split him open until he can have all that delicious red heat inside. Until he can fucking bathe in it, swallow it down like the finest wine and know that whenever he wants he can come back later for more.

If they’re fighting it isn’t the sort of war Spike minds losing. But winning is always sweet – especially when he does something particularly vicious, so caught up in his own snarling that he almost misses it. At first it’s low, a quavering thing that’s more like one of the groans Connor hasn’t bothered to muffle. It seems higher, though, more straight, and Spike takes that as his due and somehow finds both faster and harder to offer in return. Any other boy would – should – be pummeled into incapacitation, but the increase on Spike’s end turns into volume in the boy.

A cry, thin and glimmering with need. The third is sharper, even louder, and repetition make sit hoarse, makes it aching, noises that Spike feels as keenly as orgasm because he knows for sure that this isn’t a boy who’ll make blood curling screams meant for a recording studio. His are real, the kind of cries only men can make when they have no control left, not barriers, no nothing.

Just pleasure. That Spike is (forcing) giving to him.

Orgasm doesn’t make them stop. Hell, Spike barely notices it before he starts to shudder, relief pulling up from the balls of his feet as he chokes on a howl, folding his arms around Connor with suffocating intent. “Such a good boy,” he tries to purr, the words jerky and more heartfelt than possibly he means, exploding with breathstealing force. 

He's got no breath to steal, of course. So he takes Connor’s instead, tightening the arm around the boy’s throat, other hand vise-tight around a cock that sputters and leaks whether or not it gets squeezed. Spike hasn’t stopped yet, himself, his own cock barely softened, because he doesn’t want to stop, not yet. Neither does the boy, still making those low cries, utterly limp as he’s fucked and taken and his own orgasm is nearly an afterthought.

Spike knows, of course. He’s been there, too, and doesn’t stop moving until each of them have come again, wrung out and exhausted and just where they should be.

How long they stay hung over the railing afterward Spike doesn’t bother to count. All he knows is that the heartbeat thundering beneath him as slowed and there are bruises that taste like candy apples when he sucks on them, gnawing so more capillaries burst.

"Good boy. Don't want me to stop, do you? Not hardly."

Silence. Spike allows it, secure in the knowledge that it’s only his arms and cock, still lazily rocking inside Connor’s ass, that are keeping the boy on his feet. He can afford this magnanimous moment.

Then the boy sighs. "No, I don't."

Spike’s grin could cut diamond. "Good boy. Got yourself a car? Got a hankering to taste this," he squeezes the cock he still holds lightly, thumbing over the sticky warmth drying at the tip, "while it's still messy."

Connor groans, hips jerking helplessly. Such a nice word, that.

Especially when Spike is smart enough to know it's a lie. Just a fun one.

"Yeah. Yeah, I have a car."

"What're we waiting for then?" he purrs.

"You may have perfected walking with a dick in your ass but that's not a skill I'm practiced in."

Laughter bursts out, silvery sunshowers to wash away the filth. Spike kisses him, sweat and skin and that steady, furious pulse that will be pale as sunrise blue when he sees it in the light, and nips in the same place for good measure. 

And says, "First lesson starts now."

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't in the same 'verse where Spike and Connor live together while Connor goes to college. This is pretty much straight up porn *g*


End file.
